Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Take Back The Stall

I read my friend Sams blog today about his issues with pooping in public. I can identify with some of his problems, while some make me feel that counseling would be in order. The main fear that I have is that awkwardness of sitting feet from someone while you both are pumping grumpies. Well I have devised a plan, It basically is an offensive attack, pun intended.When I was younger I worked for a fairly large church. There was another guy that I worked with who was quite possibly one of the funniest people on earth. He and I would go in the bathroom right before the second service would start and we would sit on both sides of the center stall. Leaving our victim's only one place to go. Then once the poor sucker was in place we would lay into labor pain sounds from the stalls on either side. Not at the same time, and we would ramp up the noise, starting with innocent enough grunts all the way up to foot stomping. We sent many a Sam's pre-maturely wiping and vowing never to duce in public. I say this to say that a good offence is the best defense. When you are enjoying the bathroom and someone comes in, make like every man over the age of 70. Have no shame. Start making sounds that have nothing to do with pooping. Heck even hum or sing. I guarantee that you will be alone much sooner than you could wish. So go forth and poo with confidence that 95% of the guys in there are just as scared of you. But if you should run across that other 5%. Pull your feet up and pray that the Lord would tarry no longer, because while that guy casts out a demon in the next stall. You my friend are front row, and by the way your pants are down.

7 comments:

You stole my "pumping a grumpy" line and didn't even give it the respect it is due. That could be perhaps the greatest phrase for taking the browns to the superbowl and wisked over it like your wife does you in bed. out here

In my travels I had the great fortune of experiencing a wide variety of restroom facilities. I have pinched a loaf at a Waffle House in Seattle. I have drained the proverbial lizard into a toilet with gold plated hardware in Vegas. And I have often done so in the presence of other, silent men.

Men have a code, an unspoken law of bathroom etiquette. There is a sacred barrier of silence at the men's room door. Once you cross, your conversation stops, and your ability to vocalize anything but the crudest of grunts vanishes. This code is adhered to by all decent gentlemen. We don't talk. We don't touch. We do not make eye contact.

Men are also groomed from a very young age to believe that they are inadequate and should be embarrassed to let anyone see their winkie. These fears are driven as much by the influence of Television and Movies as they are by the fact that it's true.

And that's why I like dividers. You know, that little half-wall that sticks out and protects your manhood and your reputation (I mean what else have you got?). The only thing worse than a restroom sans dividers is a trough.

There is a mall near my office where I sometimes visit during my lunch. I do not go there specifically to walk past the Victoria's Secret, but if I just so happen to do so on my way to the food court...

Yesterday, I entered the mall with a full bladder and a substantial reserve supply in my kidneys. I rushed past the large mall fountain - its' spring of turbulent water bursting forth from the pipes within, the sound trickling into my soul. I jumped over a planter when a group of teenagers blocked the way (damn teenagers, why aren't you in school?). I ambled past the Victoria's Secret.

Through the food court and into the bathroom I stumbled. Only to find a long row of undivided urinals on one side, and a long row of locked stalls on the other. I did what any self-respecting man would do. I hurried to the far end and took position in front of the porcelain altar in the corner.

A dam bursts. A flower blooms. Bright, candy rainbows stretch across a sky-blue sky. Sweet, cosmic relief. Siddhartha became The Enlightened One while he was taking a leak.

Almost immediately after I lost track of Nirvana and began staring hatefully at a swastika drawn into the grout joints, an elderly man hobbled into view back near the entrance. My eyes met his and I knew I was doomed. Old men are not among the observers of the Sacred Code of Bathroom Etiquette.

The geriatric two-stepped his way down the aisle and stood at the urinal next to mine. Six other empty pots, and he chose the one next to me. I turned toward the corner, hoping to get some of my back between my... umm device and his prying eyes.

I heard him fumble with his fly, and then I heard the sound of a belt buckle hitting the floor.

I shivered.

The man then began to release a stream piss that did not make contact with the target. Droplets of cloudy yellow liquid ran down the wall in front of me. My shoes were taking a LOT of splash damage.

I tried to pinch off the flow, but wouldn't you know it? It f'ing stings. I might as well have driven a drill bit up my urethra. So I stepped away from the urinal and redirected my flow to the drain on the floor. Once my aim was true, I glanced over to see WTF this guy was doing. I was greeted with the sight of a bald bloodhound of a man, his pants around his ankles, bare ass to the wind, head back, eyes closed, urinating wildly against the bathroom wall. It was like he had a sprinkler attachment on the end of his hose.

I squeezed the last drop and returned my monkey wrench to the toolbox. Just as I turned to make haste out of this socially awkward situation, the old man let out a sigh. Followed by a loud, crispy fart.